


Sickfic  ♢   Misunderstanding  ♢   Overwhelmed

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Delirium, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Not Canon Compliant, Sick Character, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, TMAHCweek, and by that i mean tim is here because i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26124622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: Another fic for TMA H/C Week on tumblr :)Jon's hand burn gets infected, and while he's delirious from fever, he's afraid of Compelling his friends. So he hides.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 301





	Sickfic  ♢   Misunderstanding  ♢   Overwhelmed

“Jon, hey,” Martin calls, and Jon winces. 

Shit. 

He’d been trying to avoid Martin specifically--he might be able to pull the wool over everyone else’s eyes, but there’s going to be no hiding this from Martin. The burn on his hand is infected, and what was a bit of a headache and some fatigue when he’d gotten out of bed this morning is now a raging fever. He’d go home, if he thought he could manage that by himself, but he’s got a feeling he’s going to be staying here at the Institute on the cot until his Beholding nonsense decides to heal him. He’s not quite sure why it hasn’t already. Might have something to do with the fact that he hasn’t had a statement in over a week. 

_ 39.6°C _ , Beholding provides him uselessly, unsolicited and irrepressible. 

That would be the reason he can’t just ask for help. Last time he was ill, the fever, not even as high as this one, had reduced his ability to keep the Knowing at bay, and things had slipped in. It hadn’t even been anything of consequence, but it was the principle of the matter, the betrayal of their trust that had made them so angry. If Tim wanted to keep secret the fact that he’d gone on the first date he’d had in months (which he’d left early with some transparent excuse in favor of sitting at home, alone, because it was just more comfortable at this point), he deserved to be able to do so. If Martin hadn’t wanted to announce that the jumper he was wearing was knit by his aunt before she passed, then it shouldn’t have been Jon’s information to ask about. 

Even worse than the fact that he hadn’t been able to keep the Knowing out of his ears had been the fact that the fever had scrambled his brain just enough that he’d genuinely thought they’d told him those things, and therefore he brought them up, resulting in a lot of yelling followed by a lot of cold-shoulders. At that time, neither Tim nor Martin had accepted the excuse that he wasn’t feeling well--and he’d regretted making the excuse in the first place, particularly when Martin had proceeded to fret through the anger, silently leaving him tea and soup when he stepped away from his office. He hated to make them angry, and he hated to make Martin worry.

“Martin,” he replies, “now isn’t a--good time.”

_ Martin’s left foot is asleep from sitting on it. _

Martin frowns. “Tim and I weren’t sure you were in at all,” he says. “Haven’t seen you all day.”

_ Martin left his house just in time to make the train, and he’d given up his seat for a little old woman without her having to ask. _

“Hm. Busy.” 

Though he’s trying for frigid and scathing, he’s distantly aware that he’s not hitting the mark, because Martin is stepping closer, eyebrows knit together in concern.

_ Martin had been looking for a specific mug earlier, one that is not in the break room at all. It’s white but stained and Martin likes the shape. Beholding will not tell him where it is. It would be nice to know because to have it back would make Martin happy. _

“You should sit down,” Martin suggests worriedly. He can feel himself swaying, but he can’t make it stop. “Have something to drink. You’re shaking. Have you eaten today?” 

Jon tries to remember, but nothing comes to mind, though that might be because he likely has not eaten today. Too nauseated. He probably couldn’t keep it down.

“Nauseated?” Martin questions. 

Jon frowns. Is Beholding whispering things to Martin, too?

_ Martin has been biting his fingernails again. It’s a nervous habit he developed when his mother was hospitalized for the first time. _

“You’re--you’re speaking to me. Can you not tell? Jon, please, sit down.” 

Lord, his head is throbbing. His hand is throbbing. It’s cold in here, and he’s shivering.

“What’s the big--oh, Jesus.” 

_ A few moments ago, Martin had texted Tim “SOS, break room.” Tim had fought down a panic attack just to come help him.  _

“Can you stop?” Jon demands when Tim reaches toward him to try to wrestle him into a chair. He wants to apologize for the accidental compulsion when Tim’s arms snap to his sides obediently, but the stab of pain that slices through his head prevents him from doing so and has him instead groaning and gripping a handful of hair tightly in an effort to relieve the pressure. Disoriented, he sways into Martin, who gasps. “He’s absolutely boiling,” he announces to Tim. Apparently, the fever is high enough even just to the touch that Martin doesn’t deem it worth the effort to explain it to Jon, since he’s barely tracking what’s going on, anyway. Or maybe he just (correctly) assumes Jon already knows. 

Jon tries to use the opportunity to escape their concern. 

“Jon, your hand,” Martin is calling after him as he shoves away from his grasp. He’s bled through the bandages by now, and the infection of the burn is obvious. He might be muttering apologies, he’s not quite sure, but somehow, he manages to make it to his office and lock the door behind him before sinking to the ground, dizzy and in pain. 

Through the fever daze, he can Hear their conversation in the break room. 

_ “What in the hell was that about?” Tim demands. He sounds angry. Jon’s fault. _

_ “I don’t think he’s thinking straight. That fever was blazing. Did you see his hand?” _

_ “I thought he was healing supernaturally these days.”  _

_ “I thought so too, but we were wrong. Or, perhaps this is something--different; I don’t know.” _

They’re getting closer, and eventually, Jon can hear their conversation from the source, so Behonding goes back to whispering unwanted and unnecessary personal information about the two of them that makes him feel even more guilty.

“He needs to see a doctor, and soon.”

“Should we call an ambulance?”

“Let’s just try to get him out of his office, first,” Martin says, and Jon hates that plan, hates that he knows just how fast Martin’s heart is beating as he stands outside the door (not quite as fast as his own, he knows). He knocks. “Jon? Can you hear me?”

“Go away, Martin,” he snaps, or at least, tries to. There’s no energy to it. “M’busy.” 

“You’re not busy,” Tim calls his bluff irritably. “You’re hiding.”

“Whatever it is, Jon,” Martin attempts to soothe, “if you… if you did something--I don’t know--or if Beholding made you do something… We’re not angry. We just need to know what it is, so we can help.”

Jon’s heart sinks with the assumptions that they’re making--untrue, he thinks, because he hasn’t done anything except shake the wrong hand, but can he blame them? Has he given them any reason to believe he’s not a monster? 

“Leave me alone,” Jon commands. He must have compelled them, at least a little, because there are audible sounds of struggle outside the door: struggle to stay, physical strain they’re enduring just to not leave him alone. Because this is what he does; he makes himself so impossible to love that eventually everyone just takes the path of least resistance which always, always leads away from Jon. 

He hadn’t meant to.

He never does. 

“Stop  _ doing _ that,” Tim scolds. “We’re trying to help.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon can’t help but apologize, pain seeping in at the edges of the words. It makes them heavy, waterlogged, and more difficult to utter because they’re clumsy on his tongue. “Did this last time, too.” 

Though that part was mostly meant to be said to himself, Martin latches onto it hard. “Did what? And what do you mean, last time?” 

Jon blinks. Too many questions at once. Can’t focus. 

“Wait,” Tim says after a moment despite that no one was speaking, “do you mean the compulsion thing?” 

“And the Knowing,” Jon adds. Good, he thinks. They’ve figured out that he’s got no self-control, and they’ll leave. He can’t compel them if they’re not here. 

“Last time?” Martin puzzles. “When was the last time you compelled us?”

Tim frowns; Jon can hear it. “Last time I remember was after that date I went on,” he supplies. “And he knew… something about you, too. I forget what it was, since it was none of my business. But I remember we yelled at him.” 

“Oh, God. He said he didn’t feel well that day, either. Do you remember?” 

“Christ. Jon, come out. We know you can’t help it. We’re not going to be mad at you for not being able to control it with your hand infected and your brain soft-boiling. Read my mind all you want, or whatever weird powers you can’t control right now. Just open the door.” Tim sounds exasperated. Why won’t they just leave?

“We’re not angry. We promise. But we’re not going anywhere until you open the door.” 

Because Jon is, above all else, a practical man, he supposes that the only efficient option is to open the door. He does so solely because to wait would be to waste their time, however--certainly not because when Martin’s hands had gripped him to keep him steady in the break room, it was the warmest he’d felt in hours, and absolutely not because he was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed and scared handling this alone. 

Martin rushes in, pushing the door open as soon as he hears the lock click, and kneels in front of Jon on the floor. Now that the adrenaline has been burned through, Jon is weak, and Martin catches his head against his chest when he droops forward bonelessly. 

“Okay, alright. I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

Tim squeezes his good hand. “It’s going to be alright, Boss.” 

That’s a nickname he hasn’t heard in a while, and it makes him smile despite himself, even though neither of them can see it with his head buried as it is in Martin’s jumper. 

Trusting that they will handle it from here, Jon stops fighting the exhaustion, and closes his eyes. Martin keeps telling him to stay awake, but--well. 

If they don’t forgive him for that, then he’s no worse off than he’d been before. 

So, he drifts off. 


End file.
